


It's never really over at goodbye

by WhiteWolfCraft



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22468255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteWolfCraft/pseuds/WhiteWolfCraft
Summary: How the ghost of the smell is like a kiss, long-distance.It is moments like these where Daniel can’t quite fathom how he got this lucky, how he is fortunate enough to live in Monaco and drive fast cars for a living. (But today Daniel can’t quite forget about the sacrifices he has made, moving to Europe at 17, his family half a world away.)
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64





	It's never really over at goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pronoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pronoe/gifts).

> > How the ghost of the smell is like a kiss, long-distance.
> 
> Is from [Proud](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/41553972-proud?from_search=true&qid=FWHdU7ebiD&rank=3) (page 310), an anthology of stories, poetry and art on the theme of pride. It fits the story very well.
> 
> The title is from '[You Never Stop Loving Somebody](https://youtu.be/g3JM1faxH_M)' by Big & Rich.
> 
> It has been many many years since I last wrote fic and I've only ever written for different fandoms, so this is new. I thought I was done with writing and then I unexpectedly fell into an F1 rabbit hole (assisted greatly by Youtube) after years of following the sport casually and here we are.
> 
> This has been beta-ed by my favourite beta. Any remaining mistakes are solely mine.

**Monaco, August 2019**

Summer evenings in Monaco are one of Daniel’s favourite things. The temperature cools down from the afternoon heat to a pleasant low twenties degrees, just warm enough to sit outside on the balcony in shorts and a t-shirt. The slight breeze from the Mediterranean ruffles his hair, carrying the scent of salt, reminding him of Perth, of home. The street outside his building calms down from the hustle and bustle during the day to a gentle quiet, disrupted by the occasional happy voices or joyful laughter from passersby.

Daniel shifts slightly on the lounge chair he is lying on, his Bluetooth speaker standing on the small table next to him, playing soft acoustic guitar music. He hums along, occasionally singing a few lines. It is the middle of the summer break and Daniel is feeling melancholic. His season is not going great, to put it mildly. Four retirements and only four point finishes is not what he hoped for when the season started five months ago. Maybe Melbourne was a hint of what was to come, with his home race only lasting some 100 meters before he lost his front wing and his chances of finishing the race.

He misses competing with the Mercedeses and Ferraris at the front, getting on the podium and the sticky feel of champagne on his skin. He misses the weight of a trophy in his hands, getting to lift it in the air while the crowd roars. He misses celebrating victories with his team, being surrounded by happy, smiling faces instead of frowns and disappointment when he is forced to retire, again.

He misses the ridiculous stunts he got to pull for the Red Bull videos, throwing axes and racing caravans on track. Playing ice hockey and American football. Driving his F1 car through Las Vegas, no matter how staged it was. He misses his almost unlimited access to Red Bull events, getting to meet other athletes and celebrities he looks up to. He misses his engineers, the people he worked with for over five years, now replaced with a team he barely knows.

He misses Max.

He misses shooting ridiculous videos for Red Bull together with him. He misses making immature jokes that get a laugh out of Max every single time. He misses singing, having Max roll his eyes at him before getting him to join in, if only for a few words. He misses their battles on track, trying to outqualify each other, breaking each other’s lap records, trying to find that extra tenth, hundredth or thousandth to beat the other.

(He doesn’t miss them crashing into each other, like in Hungary, like in Baku. He doesn’t miss getting screwed over by the team so Max finishes higher, on podiums, while Daniel receives meaningless excuses and empty promises. He doesn’t miss Max apologising for things he has no control over, trying to resolve the tension between them that isn’t of their making. He doesn’t miss the team so blatantly favouring Max, forcing him to walk away before they slam the door in his face.)

(He doesn’t miss Red Bull.)

He misses Max’s intense gaze when he is focused on winning, regardless of whether it’s a race or a silly competition between them. He misses being close to Max during interviews and videos. He misses the easy excuses to touch him and run his fingers over his clothes and skin. He misses being in close proximity to him from the moment they arrive at a Grand Prix until they fly back to Monaco together. He misses joking around with him during interviews and in private, out of sight of cameras.

He misses hugging him after race wins for either of them, helmets banging together. He misses sharing podiums with him, drenching each other in champagne, pressing close for photos. He misses the sight of Max with flushed cheeks, hair soaked with sweat and champagne, for once not wearing his eternal cap. He misses the team parties after wins where they would get sloppy drunk and hang onto each other the entire night, never straying beyond touching distance.

He just misses everything about Max.

He found the candle Max gave him earlier today, when he was tidying up. The one that smells like a go-kart track, of fuel and all the smells he associates with racing. The one Max gave him during their last _On the Sofa_ video, the one and only present Max gave him during those videos that actually came from Max. (Unlike all the other ‘presents’ they gave each other, whose perfect wrapping was the first hint for Daniel to know it wasn’t actually from Max. Max hadn’t even wrapped the candle.) And Daniel didn’t even remember ever telling Max that fuel is one of his favourite scents until he saw a Twitter mention that referred to that Monaco _On the Sofa_ special. A throw-away line from Daniel, mostly agreeing with Max about the smell of fuel. (Daniel meant it though, it brought him back to the days when things were simpler, just driving around in a kart, his dad there to support him, when he was just doing it for fun and results didn’t matter yet.)

The candle is sitting on the table, next to the speaker. Daniel wants to both light it and not. It is the last thing Max has given him and if he burns it, that’s it. He could try to track down the company Max got it from and buy more, but it wouldn’t be the same. They wouldn’t be from Max, wouldn’t be handpicked by him. (The thought of Max standing in a store, smelling candles, trying to pick one especially for Daniel makes something curl in his gut that he prefers to ignore.)

The last dregs of sunlight are quickly disappearing behind the hills that surround Monaco, the water turning darker. Lights of boats blink beyond the harbour and it is moments like these where Daniel can’t quite fathom how he got this lucky, how he is fortunate enough to live in Monaco and drive fast cars for a living. (But today Daniel can’t quite forget about the sacrifices he has made, moving to Europe at 17, his family half a world away, the loneliness and homesickness he felt having left scars on his soul.)

He waits until it is completely dark before he lights the candle. He is wrapped in a blanket he grabbed from inside when he got the matches, the chill from the Mediterranean getting too much. A bottle of beer is standing on the table, the cap removed. Daniel unscrews the candle’s lid, inhaling its scent deeply before he lights it. The flame flickers for a moment, threatening to snuff out (which would be an ironic metaphor for things Daniel doesn’t think about) before it grows stronger, the flame bright and steady.

The smell of fuel mingling with the salty tang from the sea is a weird combination but Daniel likes it and he closes his eyes. He sips his beer and let’s himself think about Max, properly think about him, the way he rarely lets himself think about him. Think about his eyes, what they would look like if darkened by lust, pupils wide. Think about his body, lean and lithe, muscles clearly defined. Let’s himself think of the glimpses he has caught of Max changing, peeling out of his race suit and fire-proofs, muscles rippling under smooth skin. Thinks of Max soaked in sweat, elated from a win, his eyes bright, face flushed. Thinks of other situations where Max could look like that, pressed into white sheets and soft pillows, his chest heaving, moans tumbling from his lips.

“Fuck,” Daniel whispers, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes. He only ever lets himself indulge in those kinds of thoughts for a few minutes before locking them away again and getting back to not thinking about it. (It is getting harder to push those thoughts away. Harder to not think about it.)

He grabs his phone, opening Spotify and thumbing through his playlists until he finds the one named _MDM_. It is the one filled with acoustic music, mostly sad songs about heartbreak and loving someone unattainable. He turns the volume up a little and takes another sip of his beer.

He stares out over the harbour, eyes focused on the lights of the boats but his gaze sightless. The scent of fuel surrounds him, now irrevocably tied to thoughts of Max. He runs his thumb absentmindedly over his beer bottle, tracing the edges of the label with his nail.

* * *

Max gets home late from dinner with sponsorship people and vague acquaintances, and he shrugs off his jacket the moment he enters his apartment. He tosses it over the back of his couch and unbuttons his dress shirt while he walks to his bedroom. He changes into sweatpants and a loose shirt and heads to the balcony, making a detour via the kitchen to grab a beer.

He dislikes these dinners with sponsors and people who bought their way into sharing a table with him. He doesn’t care about making nice with these people, making nice with sponsors. None of that is why he got into racing. He just wants to drive a fast car, win races and couldn’t care less about the fuss around it, the whole media circus.

But Christian would kill him if he didn’t play nice with the sponsors, if he didn’t entertain the people that throw money at Red Bull to spend the evening with him, so he dresses up, goes to these dinners, talks about racing and their chances for the second half of the season, discusses the Honda motor, avoids talking about last season and the mess that was the Renault motor, and tries to smile occasionally.

And then he thankfully gets to go home, change into comfortable clothes and have a beer. Relax on his balcony, if the weather is nice and it is. So Max steps out onto the balcony, sinks into the chair and breathes in deeply. He smells the sea and a familiar whiff that invokes childhood memories of karting, racing around the track, trying to get the last bit of speed out of the kart. When racing was simple, with no media duties or sponsorship dinners to attend, where he could go home at end of the day without having microphones and cameras shoved in his face.

The scent of fuel is faint in the air and Max breathes in again, feeling himself relax. It takes him a few moments to hear the faint music drifting from another balcony and while the music is different from what Daniel usually listens to, it has to be Daniel. Daniel would be the only one burning a candle that smells like fuel in this building.

Max wonders for a moment if it is the candle he gave Daniel last year, but then he shakes his head. Daniel must have burned that one already, Max knows he goes through candles quickly. Which is one of the reasons why he got the candle for Daniel in the first place.

He stretches out, sinking lower in the chair, hands curled around the bottleneck and he closes his eyes, listening to the sorrowful music Daniel is listening to. Sad love songs are not something Max associates with Daniel, who is almost always smiling when Max sees him, but it weirdly fits Max’s mood for tonight.

He can hear Daniel sing along occasionally, only when the street is quiet and no traffic passing by. Daniel’s voice is soft, thick with emotions that Max can’t place, and something in Max twists painfully.

Hearing Daniel like this, the sad music, it reminds Max too much of last season, the times when he found Daniel in a forgotten corner of the garage, headphones on, gaze lost in the distance. Max didn’t know what to do, faced with a despondent Daniel, and the first time he found Daniel like that he wanted to walk away, leave him alone. And then Daniel rasped his name, looking up at Max, pleadingly. And Max sat down next to him, pressing their shoulders together. He didn’t know what to say but Daniel didn’t seem to mind the silence. He just leaned against Max, music blasting loud enough to be leaking from the headphones, and closed his eyes.

And it had happened again and again, the team fucking over Daniel in favour of Max and Max didn’t know how to deal with all that. Because he wanted to win and get good results. But not like that, not by fucking over Daniel. And he couldn’t understand why Daniel never told him to fuck off when Max sat down next to him. Max would have, if the situation had been the other way around. And yet Daniel just leaned against him and waved Max stilted, hesitant apologies away.

And then Daniel left, changing teams, moving to Renault which Max still struggled to understand, after all the problems they had with that engine. But Max got why Daniel left. He didn’t like it, in fact he hated it, but he understood why. And he tried not to feel guilty, tried not to feel like he was the reason Daniel was leaving, with the way the team favoured him. He never asked for any of this. All he wanted, all he wants, is to drive fast cars.

But Daniel never blamed him, always greeted him with that big smile while the rest of the team got a dimmer, faded version after the summer break and the announcement. And Max did his best not to feel guilty and kept joking around with Daniel, joining in with his singing because he knew it made Daniel happy. And he still sat next to him, saying nothing, realising that being there for Daniel was enough. Realising that Daniel needed someone in his corner while the team did their best to get rid of him. And that Max could do. He could be there for Daniel.

Max sips his beer, opening his eyes again. The slight breeze ruffled his hair, the salty tang of the ocean fully eradicating the scent of fuel for a few seconds. He looks out over the harbour, lights swaying as the boats they belonged to were jostled by waves. The quiet gentleness of the evening combined with the scent of fuel and Daniel’s sorrowful music has put him a weird mood, his gut churning in a way Max isn’t familiar with. It is similar to the way he felt before his first race in 2015, his first race with Red Bull, but not quite the same. And it unsettles him, making him fidget and pick at the label of his bottle.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and thumbs through his photos until he finds the series of selfies they took together in Austria, Max running into Daniel in the hotel both their teams stayed at, after his win. Max still felt sticky from champagne and high on his win when Daniel had wrapped him up in a hug, almost knocking his cap off. And Max had smiled so wide his cheeks hurt and responded by wrapping his arms tightly around Daniel.

Daniel had followed him up to his room and announced they needed to get a selfie of them, Daniel pressing their faces together with Max holding the trophy. It hadn’t been a great photo so they took another and another, Daniel a warm weight pressed against his side, smiling as he criticised Max’s selfie skills. They finally got a good one and then Daniel surprised Max by pressing a sloppy kiss on his cheek, snapping another picture to capture Max’s wide eyes, the laugh lines around Daniel’s eyes crinkled up.

Max pauses on that photo now. It is a kind of shitty photo, a little blurry, the lighting absolute shit and the top of their heads missing, cut off from the frame. But Max still treasures this photo, the way happiness radiates off both of them. They had spent the rest of the evening together in Max’s hotel room, after Max had taken a shower to get rid of the champagne and sweat, watching dubbed films on TV, sprawled out on the double bed, so much space available but their shoulders still ending up pressed together.

Their friendship is different with Daniel at another team, now that they barely spend any time together during a race weekend, one of them always getting called away for something or other after a few minutes. And they live in the same building, but training and sponsorship duties for both of them mean they only occasionally meet in the elevator, too tired to do more than greet each other and ask about their days.

And Max likes having Pierre as a teammate, although Christian told him Alex would be partnered with him after the summer break, but neither of them are like Daniel. Max misses having a teammate he is equally matched with, being able to compare himself to Daniel to see who is better in which corner, who ekes out the battle between them. And he misses Daniel’s cheerful mood in the garage, only having to glance over to the other side to see Daniel’s smile and feeling better himself.

He misses Daniel, he realises, eyes still trained on the photo. And he isn’t sure why that comes as a shock to him when he has been keeping an eye out for a bright yellow shirt every time he walks through the paddock, hoping to catch a glimpse of Daniel. But it still is a surprise to him when he realises what the churning feeling in his gut means.

“Fuck,” Max whispers, sitting up and moving to the edge of his chair, resting his elbows on his legs and burying a hand in his hair, the other still clutching his beer.

Max realises that Daniel’s music is now reflecting his own mood and Max finishes his beer with a big gulp, getting up to get another one, taking a blanket with him. He curls up on the chair with the blanket, clutching the bottle in one hand, his phone in the other, still opened on that picture. He traces the lines around Daniel’s eyes, notices the way his own eyes are shining bright. He locks his phone with a sigh, letting it drop into the folds of his blanket. He sips his beer as he stares out over the harbour, the lights of the boats blurring in his gaze.

_From Daniel [23:12]  
[Attached: a photo of a candle in a tin, burning low, casting a yellow light on a speaker and a beer bottle]  
I miss you_

_To Daniel [23:25]_   
_[Attached: a video of the harbour, faint music audible in the background, a deep voice singing along]_   
_I miss you too_

**Author's Note:**

>   1. The [Monaco _On the Sofa _special](https://youtu.be/LsgV7ITPmGk?t=88) where they discuss their favourite scents.
>   2. [Max gifting Daniel with the candle](https://youtu.be/045L8bBVF8A?t=2074) during the _On the Sofa _season review of 2018.
>   3. The playlist _MDM_ stands for _Maximus Decimus Meridius_, which is something Daniel occasionally calls Max.


End file.
